


the fall, [DATE REDACTED]

by ayendae



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, End of the World, Robots, i was bored, this is what happens when i read nothing but ray bradbury for a week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:53:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21940744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayendae/pseuds/ayendae
Summary: The date is not for you to know—it is not the past nor the present, and that is all that really is important.It is on this day that human civilization began its descent.





	the fall, [DATE REDACTED]

The date is not for you to know—it is not the past nor the present, and that is all that really is important.

There is a city, taller and wider than anything in our current year, that from across the night bay looks like tall, jagged black crystals, lit with pink and blue and green, advertisements for strip clubs, casinos, restaurants, technology corporations. Sometimes dirigibles or ships land in the city, or fly over it.

In the city is a city square. Five streets intersect, walled in by soaring skyscrapers. Up close, the pink and blue and green lights are moving, holographic. One advertises “CALDEINE-DERRIMAN: TOMORROW TODAY.” The logo on the sign is a silver circle with clean-cut “C” “D” letters.

Above the street: sleek, silver cars, and only slightly below that is an iron walkway. Robots walk those walkways, all of them with a silver circle with clean-cut “C” “D” letters stamped on.

The street is wet with the memory of rain, dirty water from the shoes and tires of those who walk and drive on it. The walk signal turns green, and pedestrians flood the streets. Drivers drum their fingers on the steering wheels of their cars impatiently. A police tripod robot towers above them all, watching, scanning.

Above, on the walkway. Black-clad figures whisper soundlessly, gesture. Raise guns, aim.

Below again. Stanley Wheeler is 75 years old, his can creaking as much as his knees. Stanley remembers when this city was smaller, kinder, cleaner. He thinks about what it was like back then, all those years ago, and he scowls at the pornographic advertisements and the grime on the streets, glares at the cars on the street that belch fumes. He is too busy glaring at the dirty, graffitied pavement to notice the long figure, falling down from the sky.

Pamela Stenberg is carrying groceries through the square. A man bumps her, almost knocking the bags out of her hand, and marches on without apologizing. She scowls at his back, thinking about how much his haircut looks like her worthless ex-boyfriend. She glowers for another second, readjusts the bags, and stalks away, blue-and-blond hair flickering angrily. She needs a cigarette. She does not notice the silver shape, falling down from the sky.

Joseph Hernandez is a few blocks away, dragging a protesting, spiteful red pickup truck. He bought this truck twenty years ago, and while it had handled quite well at the start, lately the two of them have been having arguments. He scowls at the dashboard. He is too far away to see the artificial arrow, falling down from the sky.

Zae tosses away his own cigarette, blowing the last bit of smoke before stamping on his cigarette butt. He’s 17 years old, no parents, no last name, living in a flat over a strip club with his friends. The room is small, dirty, and cramped, and it’s home. Or at least it was, until the landlord evicted them. Zae and his friends now live in the alley, under a rain tarp. Zae spits on the pavement, scowling. He’s too busy digging around for another cigarette to notice the smoking object, falling down from the sky.

Under the walkway is Emily Lowell, and she feels something drip onto her coat. She looks at her sleeve, thinking _unbelievable, I just bought this coat_ and notices that the drips are dark brown, oddly sticky, and warm. She looks up just in time to see the police tripod come crashing down around her.

The world stops for a moment. There, an old man, head almost turned, eyes widened in surprise. There, a young woman, groceries in her arms poised to leap out in terror. There, a seventeen-year-old boy, his hands open to let a lit lighter fall to the ground. And underneath—a young woman, body almost crumpled under the police tripod.

Time begins again. Those nearest to the police tripod jump away, eyes bugging, arms jerking up over their faces.

It is too late for Emily Lowell, whose last thought is something like _Looks like I’m going to miss Christmas._

A construction worker spills coffee all over himself when he jumps, spraying himself with scalding liquid, and he curses. A police officer, too close, accidentally shoots off his gun, sparks spraying everywhere and going right through the passenger-side windshield of a passing pickup truck. Joseph Hernandez panics at the small hole in the seat next to him and drives his truck into a store window, and the store owner jumps out of his way into a rack of uncomfortably pointy Christmas decorations, puncturing one buttock.

Stanley Wheeler is standing close enough that the shock of the police tripod suddenly collapsing makes something in his chest clench up, and he keels over, thinking _God almighty, I’m getting too old for this._ He is the only one, for the moment, to see the black-clad figures with the guns, and he thinks to himself _That’s new._ He considers telling someone about it, but does not because his voice does not seem to be working.

Not too far away, Zae’s lighter, shuddering with a flame, accidentally catches onto a pile of old newspapers and sets them on fire. This causes even more panic, and many begin to run away. Pamela Stenberg is one of these people, abandoning her groceries and thinking _fuck it,_ _a carton of milk isn’t worth it._

The police tripod smokes, shudders. Those brave enough to look see a crumpled, twisted metal shape, vaguely human, on top of the police tripod. The logo on the figure is a silver circle with clean-cut “C” “D” letters. Evidently the robot with the Caledine-Derriman logo fell from the sky, landed on the police tripod with enough force to make it come crashing down.

Then, only then, do the remaining people look up. Just in time to see another robot, four neat bullet holes in its artificial chest, go toppling over the edge. The robot falls onto the back of Joseph Hernandez’s truck, smashing itself and the back of the truck into something shapeless, and Hernandez in his concussed state only thinks _Stop knocking, I’m not home._

Above, they see black-clad figures, shooting the robots, letting the empty shells of the robots go cartwheeling over the edge of the walkway. Stanley, looking up, fringes of black encroaching on his vision, thinks to himself _This never would have happened when I was a boy._ Then his chest gives another squeeze and he never will think anything ever again. Pamela trips over his body as she runs away, considers helping, and then forgets all about him.

The police officer who accidentally shot Joseph’s pickup truck is staring in disbelief at the black-clad figures, who seem unconcerned or unaware of the chaos below. He picks up his walkie-talkie, fumbles with it, screams something like _GET ME A SQUAD DOWN HERE SOME FUCKER’S KILLING OFF THE BOTS DESTROYED A POLICE TRIPOD HOLY SHIT_ and then the shock catches up to him and he wobbles, falls onto the pavement, hyperventilating.

Zae has caught his shoe on fire, and is making little ludicrous hops in circles, yelling his head off and staring at the mangled robot that landed in the flaming newspapers, slowly melting.

Another figure falls from the walkway, but it’s not silver. It’s black. The black-clad figure explodes in a shower of sparks as he hits the pavement, the machine oil blood mixing with the small trickle of red coming from the crushed arm protruding from under the collapsed tripod. The police officer stares at the metal flesh and wire bones peeking out from the black clothing. A second figure falls not too far away, and Zae watches the black fabric shrivel away to reveal a red, coldly computing eye that dims as the flames reach the circuit brain. _Bots can’t kill other bots,_ he thinks. _Can they?_ Later, much later, when Zae has grown stubble and greyed out a little, when he has learned about programming errors and artificial intelligence, he and his friends will be the Eightieth Battalion, trying to put down the Uprising.

Joseph Hernandez is taken away in an ambulance. Part of his skull will be metal. This is a small, insignificant detail that will later change the course of human history—and robot history as well.

Pamela Stenberg will grow to be an old woman, living in a cottage in Louisiana, far away from any technology aside from her television. One day, the television will get her as well.

Tomorrow: the news reports will be confused, baffled, and then the news anchors will be gunned down on live television by beings that do not breathe, eat, or sleep, with plastic organs and silicon thoughts.

Human civilization on earth does not survive to the next century. And the day just described—six days before Christmas, in a year that you cannot know, is the first day. The first day of the Fall.


End file.
